I was evacuated to Hilldrop Villa, in Helions Bumpstead, a village near Haverhill, Essex. War was declared on September 3, 1939. We were living in Dartford then, and my mother was about to give birth to my brother, Terry. There was enormous panic, as people thought the Germans would invade, and we all went to an air-raid shelter. The very next day, my sister, Shirley, and I were evacuated.

We were taken to Helions Bumpstead by my grandmother on a chara-banc. I was seven, Shirley was four, and we each had a little suitcase. When we arrived at Hilldrop, it was raining. There was gas lighting and no running water. The loo was in the garden. It was primitive compared with our home in Dartford, which had been built in 1936 and had electricity and running water.

The people there were eccentric. Mrs Lofts was the matriarch and had grey hair in a bun and no make-up. She was about 40, but seemed very old, because my mother was only 27. Mr Lofts was a semi-retired sailor who had served on the Ark Royal; he was away working as a boatman in Greenwich. There was a son, who was 12; he lent me his Beano. His ambition was to be a bus driver, so he constantly sat with a plate on his knee as a steering wheel, pretending to drive. The Lofts daughter was younger, but still older than us. She had a withered arm and, looking back, must have been mentally retarded. She was frightening and once chased my sister round the house with a carving knife.

There were two lodgers. Bill was a farm worker who got up at five every morning to milk the cows, and he would fart from the top of the steep staircase to the bottom. Mr Grace had been in the Boer war and had had a leg amputated on the battlefield. He hardly ever came out of his bedroom and ate his meals there. He must have been a Roman Catholic, because the priest came every Friday to see him. Occasionally, when we were at the village school, we would see him walking on crutches on the hill opposite. He was at least 6ft 6in – a giant of a man – and a terrifying figure.

Hilldrop Villa was like a child’s drawing of a house, with a door in the centre and windows either side. It was pebble-dashed and built in about 1910. It had four bedrooms, a box room, a tiny hall and a parlour that was used only on Sundays. There was a sitting room/dining room with a round table, a radio and pictures of the Ark Royal. The kitchen was a lean-to at the back, with a black range and a sink with an iron pump.

In the morning, we had to pump cold water to wash. Mrs Lofts cooked on a Primus stove, except on Sundays, when the range was lit. The zinc bath was brought in, water was boiled and we would take turns to bathe in the same water. Mrs Lofts went first and I went before Shirley, who was last. It was cosy sitting in the bath in front of the range, in which a joint of meat would be cooking for lunch.

Our neighbours, Mr and Mrs Wills, ran the village shop, where, once a week, we were allowed to get a penny sweet. There was rationing, but the Lofts grew vegetables and had chickens, so there would be the treat of an egg. Breakfast was a piece of fried bread, lunch was mince, Spam or bacon roly-poly. We ate rabbit, there was the odd black-market chicken and we certainly ate rook.

On Sundays, we would wear best clothes and Victorian boots, and had to go to church at 11am, Sunday school at three and the evening service. In the afternoon we had to sit quietly and read. Sometimes, my sister and I were sent out for compulsory walks while the family listened to a comedy programme such as Happydrome on the radio. It was very odd. Mrs Lofts never hit us, but she was strict, and I soon realised that our parents paid for us to be there – that we were a commodity.

We saw our parents every three months. They came on a motorbike and sidecar. My father was a dispatch rider in the Home Guard, so he had a petrol allowance. I felt deserted, but it was worse for Shirley because she was so young. Every day after lunch, we were sent with two buckets to collect molehills from the fields to put on the garden. One day, I sat down on the bucket and tried to strangle myself, but, being only eight or nine, of course I couldn’t. I held on for a minute, choked a bit and then stopped, collected the molehills and took them back.

Once the war was over, we were sent back to Dartford and I went to Grave-send School of Art. I started collecting, and I am sure that being evacuated and going through the war with no toys and few books made me start and affected what I later put into my art.

See Peter Blake’s new work at Paul Stolper, WC1, Jan 23-Feb 28; www.paulstolper.com

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